


Honest Eyes Filled With Lies

by the_madame21



Series: Shattered Glass [4]
Category: Diabolik Lovers
Genre: Bickering, F/M, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 02:30:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18714682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_madame21/pseuds/the_madame21
Summary: It's the night of Sampson and Henrietta's wedding. And it goes almost as one might expect it to.Part of my Masks! AU





	Honest Eyes Filled With Lies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SoulSurgeon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoulSurgeon/gifts).



> Request done for my friend soul-surgeon!! Love you girl!

Her wedding dress is perhaps the most suffocating she’s ever worn. The corset is at least a size too small and the size of her skirt is restricting. 

_A minor error,_ according to the man she now calls her husband. Something the staff must have overlooked, and not something Sampson had purposely planned. 

Regardless, she’ll be glad for him to remove it. 

But he does not. 

Not after he pours himself a glass of demon wine. Not after he fails to offer her any. 

“You know,” he sits across from her, on the chaise opposite the bed, “I’d have thought you less of a prude.” 

“How do you mean?” her back is perfectly erect, the corset not allowing for anything less. Her earrings are beginning to feel heavy. 

Sampson chuckles into his glass, “You’ve vibora and vampires alike to do your bidding. That doesn’t come without womanly persuasion.” 

“Perhaps my current partner fails to excite me.”

“Heh,” Sampson smirks again, swirling the liquid in his glass. “You wear a brilliant mask, Henrietta,” he walks towards her, stroking her cheek with his knuckles, “how will you look when you’re stripped of it, I wonder?” 

“You may speak in riddles if you wish. But rather than trap me in a web of words, it will amount to nothing given I don’t understand.”

“Then I’ll speak plainly. You’re a virgin.” 

“That, I’ve never denied.” 

“Never admitted, is perhaps a better way to phrase it.” 

“What is your point, Marcellus?” 

Sampson cocks his head, crinkles his features, “Charles,” he corrects, “a wife should call me by my given name.” 

“Marcellus is your given name. Do you intend to bed me or not? I tire of such boring conversation.”

“In truth,” he reaches for her curls, grasping them between his fingers, and Henrietta swears she can feel heat coming from his cold hand, “I’d rather bite you.” 

She shakes her head, a curt smile plastered on her lips, “You’re insane. Everything—all of this—to bite me?” 

His fingers drag down her neck, over the bump of her breasts. Henrietta’s breath catches in her corset. “Would you prefer to bite me?” his fingers play atop her skin. 

“I’ve no interest in such things.” 

“We could drink together,” he leans in, fangs brushing against her ear, “our blood becoming one…” 

“Your fetish for a woman’s fangs is quite disturbing,” she turns to him, brow raised in judgement. “Can you truly call yourself a man?” 

He takes her hand, pressing his lips to it, nipping at it so softly that it doesn’t draw blood. “To be bitten by the woman I love is the ultimate ecstasy.” 

Henrietta laughs. She can’t help it. “The woman you love. Now I’m amused. Your reputation has not exaggerated your deception, Marcellus.” 

“Charles,” he corrects again, licking the length of her index finger. “Deception or not—it _is_ what you want to hear most, is it not?” 

She flashes her fangs in habit, out of pure respite. It’s done in poor sense. 

“There they are,” Sampson glees, rubbing his thumb over the top of her lip, against her teeth. “You remain the only woman I’ve ever seen bare her fangs.” 

She jerks her head, though his hand does not move, “You remain the only man so fixated on the fact.” 

“Don’t fuss,” Sampson tightens his grip around her chin, and again her breath catches in her chest as his thumb continues to trace around her lips. Sampson chuckles. “Still, you’re gnarling at me. If you hate it to such an extent, then bite.” 

Henrietta thinks a moment. She wants to sink her fangs in so deep, they’ll cut through bone. She wants to drain him, to drink until she’s satisfied, to have him fall to his knees in front of her. She can smell his blood, tempting but waning, the glimmer in those ocean eyes a silent encouragement to cut into flesh. 

A good wife obeys her husbands orders. 

She raises her hand to his, parting her lips and slicing against his skin, so that it will sting, so that the blood will dribble into her mouth. 

Decadent. Vampirish. Tinted with the demon wine he’d begun to drink. Divine in every sense of the word. She sucks his thumb into her mouth and then bites again, further down his hand, his blood mixing with the color of her lipstick. Closing her eyes she drinks her fill, tongue soaking in the stains of his blood. 

“Your pain is delicious,” Sampson gasps, murmuring against her. Henrietta resents it. Bites harder, sinks her fangs in deeper, fails to carve them into bone. 

Bloodlust trickles down her spine, dripping and gathering between her thighs. Sampson pulls away and she nearly whines before she catches herself, eyes widening in realization, chest rising and falling in soft pants. 

Drinking, even from a vampire, always makes on warm. 

“Now then,” his voice brings her back as Sampson gives a tender brush to her cheek, sitting beside her on the bed to pull her towards him. “Might I have a turn?” 

Though her hair is done up in adornments, he glides his fingers over her neck, as though he were moving stray strands out of the way. And then, he bites. 

Henrietta clenches her jaw, so as to not make a sound, refusing to give into his pain. But she can _feel_ it. Can feel _everything._ Her blood rushing towards his fangs, drumming and pulsing with added heat—the lust blurring her vision—his cold hand wrapped around her throat. 

Her fists close around the front of his vest, her nails dig into his chest. 

“You blood is honest,” he sighs, licking at the bite, but still Henrietta feels the droplets bleed into her dress. Sampson pulls away and blood drips from his fangs, splattering over the white of her skirt. 

“Yours is equally as deceptive as you are,” she returns. 

“What a curious statement,” Sampson drawls, fangs still hovering over neck. He licks at her shoulder. “Won’t you elaborate, beloved wife of mine?” 

Henrietta straightens. “Vampire. And yet—”

The chuckle that rises in Sampson’s throat is enough to stop her. “If I were anything more,” he breathes in her ear as a warning, “I’d have had the power to choose you as my first.” 

Henrietta shivers but refuses to acknowledge it, turns her head to touch at his face with her nails. His eyes are honest with lies. 

He would have better been born a snake. This bastard son of the Vibora Queen. 

She tastes her own blood on his lips, vibrant and foreign. Resists the urge to bite into the soft flesh. Sampson returns to gesture, glides his tongue over her lips and she opens her mouth, and allows him to bite her tongue. 

Sampson drinks. Indulges, keeps a hand around her waist with another at her nape, and when his fangs scrape her tongue red she curls her nails into his cheeks. His blood is wet against her fingers and she smirks into his lips, Sampson returning it with a nip to her tongue. 

“You’ll ruin my face,” a husk coats his voice, buries it beneath kisses. 

“You’ve mutilated my tongue,” she argues. 

“Hardly a fair exchange—”

“Indeed. Your face could use more scars—”

“Something this small won’t scar—”

“If you don’t heal it, then—”

“Do you intend to leave your mark on me?” his voice is low. Deeper than it had been, just moments before. There’s a bit of a lilt at the end, as if Sampson is expecting something, but Henrietta tells herself she’s simply imagining things. She pulls her hands away, licking up the stray strings of blood from her fingers. Sampson watches her in silence, allowing her to finish. In that same silence she leans forward, breasts brushing against his chest, and she cradles his jaw in her palm, healing his wounds with subtle elegance. 

“The second wife,” she exhales, shakily bringing her hand back, “is allowed no such thing.”

Taking hold of her wrist, Sampson stops her. He licks the length of her palm, cleaning her of the blood she’d missed. 

His tongue is hot. 

“The second wife,” he corrects, “is allowed anything she desires.” 

“On who’s authority—” 

_“On mine,”_ his bark is tame, but the strength in his voice does not go unnoticed by Henrietta. Her breath catches and again she is reminded of how small her corset is. 

Sampson drags his tongue up her fingers before kissing her knuckles, weaving their hands together. 

“Marcellus…”

The look he gives her is sharp, eyes holding enough meaning for her to understand without uttering a single word. 

“Charles,” she sighs, hands falling into her blood-stained lap. “Is it not enough that I’ve resigned myself to you? Don’t you tire of such pretty words?” 

“Don’t you tire of accusing me? I’ve yet to lie.” 

“You’re lying now.” 

“Can I do nothing so you’ll believe me?” 

She searches his face, not quite sure what she is looking for, but trying to find it nonetheless. 

“Nothing and nothing still.” 

“Then I’ll happily wallow in your misery, my dear.” 

“Such paradox does not exist.” 

“Only if you believe if doesn’t.”

“You speak in riddles again.” 

“Have you grown tired of them?” 

“I never cared for them. Not since the beginning.” 

“Then pray tell, Henrietta. Why give vows to a man you’ve already grown tired of?” 

She stares at him, nearly says something she would have regretted. “You are second only to Karlheinz. And Karlheinz has already been spoken for.”

“Twice over no less.” 

A solemn nod is all Henrietta can manage, “Twice over.” 

Sampson kisses her, movements abrupt enough to make her gasp. “As for me,” he bumps his nose against hers, as if they were nothing but humans sharing in trivial affections, “I gave my vows because I love you.” 

“For that, Charles, I will remain eternally humble,” she smiles, because it is all she can do. She does not believe him. _Cannot_ believe him. Because the moment she chooses to believe, will be the moment she loses absolutely everything. 


End file.
